


Promises to Keep

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-07
Updated: 2009-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is fuzzy, distant; Merlin can’t remember why but he’s pretty sure he wants it to stay that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ras_elased's kissmeme and originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/32836.html?#cutid1). (7 October 2009)

The world is fuzzy, distant; Merlin can’t remember why but he’s pretty sure he wants it to stay that way. Someone is talking a long way away, and the sound is comforting – a low rumbling murmur he can’t quite make out. There’s something wrong with his arm, he thinks, it won’t move; he shifts fitfully, trying to find a more comfortable position.

“Shh,” whoever is talking says, the voice clearer now. “Merlin, you idiot, you’ll muck up the bandages.” A hand presses briefly on his forehead, and Merlin subsides, drifting back into the almost-pleasant state between dreams and waking.

The voice keeps talking. He lets the words wash over him – something about servants and idiots and just desserts – and wonders in a vague, unconcerned way what’s going on. He wonders if this is what being dead feels like.

“I swear, Merlin.” The voice is closer now, fiercer. “If you die on me I’m going to kill you _myself_.”

He wants to say: _If I’m dead, how will you kill me?_ but he can’t form the words, can’t remember how they feel in his mouth, and before he can pull himself out of the fog to really concentrate on it there’s something warm pressing against the corner of his mouth, tender and soft and sort of like—

He fights his eyes open and finds himself nose to nose with Arthur, who stares back at him in dawning horror and goes slightly shifty around the eyes.

“You kissed me,” Merlin rasps, trying to force the situation make sense by stating the obvious. It doesn’t work.

“No I didn’t,” Arthur snaps, peevish, but Merlin’s known Arthur for too long to be put off by that. Arthur’s been frightened; his skin is ashy-pale and there are dark circles carved under his eyes. Merlin wonders how long he’s been here by Merlin’s bedside, waiting and talking, and the thought of Arthur lingering over him almost makes him smile.

“You did,” Merlin says. “And you can’t tell me to go polish your armour or whatever because I won’t. Not until you tell me why.”

“You can’t polish anything right now anyway,” Arthur says severely, “as you are an idiot who is apparently actively trying to get himself killed.”

Merlin frowns, opens his mouth to ask, and remembers – remembers fighting, and Arthur’s sword stuck in someone while someone else comes at him with a knife, remembers running, desperate to get the knife, stop it before it catches Arthur between the ribs—

“…Oh,” he says. Arthur glowers. Merlin feels foolish, and then feels angry with himself for feeling foolish because it’s _Arthur’s_ fault for almost getting killed and needing Merlin to save him, not _Merlin’s_. “You still haven’t told me why.”

“Getting stabbed tends to kill people,” Arthur points out. “Ergo you are an idiot with a fixation on death.”

“Not that,” Merlin says, irritated now because Arthur is always like this and on top of it the pain is creeping back in, making him wish for the disconnect of the dream again. “The kissing.”

Arthur looks shifty again, and Merlin realizes with a sick lurch he doesn’t actually want to know why Arthur kissed him. Arthur kissed Gwen, now he’s kissed Merlin, it doesn’t _mean_ anything to him, and Merlin will just have to get over that and keep going, keep saving his prince’s life and take whatever Arthur throws at him and try to ignore whatever it is that’s making him feel as if he’d eaten rocks for breakfast.

“I don’t know,” Arthur mutters finally, not meeting Merlin’s eyes.

“It’s fine,” Merlin says, too quickly. “You don’t have to—” _make it worse_ , he tries to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, their edges sharp as they scrape him.

“You and Guinevere are always after me to be more honest, right?” Arthur continues doggedly, and gods, this is going to be worse than Merlin had ever imagined; he’s bringing Gwen into it now, probably going to ask Merlin how soon he can leave to go see her again—

Arthur’s still talking, so Merlin makes a half-hearted effort to listen even though he’d really like to close his eyes and just ignore everything until Gaius comes with something to numb the pain in his arm and side.

“…and, well, I don’t know,” Arthur is saying, careful, slow, clearly thinking hard. “I just – look. You’re not completely horrible all the time, alright? And I… appreciate that. And I thought you should know.”

“Thank you, sire,” Merlin says, puzzled, because what else is he supposed to say to something like that? He almost convinces himself he really is asleep again, because Arthur has never, ever said he _appreciated_ Merlin before, and it sounds too much like the apology Merlin’s been dreaming of for months, too far removed from Prince Arthur the Prat to be really happening.

Arthur sighs gustily. “It’s your fault for making me talk about this,” he grumbles plaintively. “I’d rather just do this.” And he kisses Merlin again firmly, chastely, trying to make a point, but Merlin can feel the nerves humming through him, feel his apprehension.

“Stop getting yourself almost killed,” he orders when he pulls back, hovering tentatively over Merlin, but Merlin can hear the fear underneath now, knows what Arthur’s really trying to say, and something inside him lights up again.

“I’ll try,” he promises, “if you stop throwing yourself at magical creatures and people with swords.”

Arthur tries to bite back a grin but it breaks through anyway, spreading out and crinkling the skin in the corners of his face delightfully. “Fine,” he says, before adding, almost affectionate: “Clotpole.”

Merlin blushes. “Shut up,” he mutters, but Arthur is still grinning and Merlin can feel his own smile tugging up in reply. He looks at Arthur, still unsure, hesitant, and Arthur leans down once more to cover Merlin’s lips with his own.

It feels like a promise, this kiss, of what Merlin doesn’t know except that it means holding Arthur close, closer than the secrets that still lie between them. It is slow, intimate, almost a caress as Arthur’s hand comes up to stroke lightly at Merlin’s jaw. Merlin tilts his head, opens himself to Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t rush in, doesn’t just _possess_ ; he takes his time, teases Merlin with swipes of his tongue and makes little noises of surprise when Merlin follows him back into his own mouth.

Merlin is woozy with something more than pain when they finally pull apart. His head is spinning; his lips tingle when he looks at Arthur’s mouth, red and wet and swollen. He thinks he wants to kiss Arthur again, see if he tastes any different when he’s surprised, but Arthur is already pulling away, regret heavy in his eyes.

“I should go,” he says, his voice quiet. “Gaius will be back soon, and there’s patrol to lead.”

“Oh,” Merlin mumbles, keeping his voice carefully level. “Okay.” He doesn’t look up when Arthur stands.

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, and there is just enough uncertainty in his voice that Merlin chances a quick peek at him. He’s fiddling with his jacket in the doorway, head ducked down, shifting his feet before he catches himself and stills the motion. “I’ll be back,” he says, almost a question, and Merlin relaxes, sinking back into his pillow. 

“Okay,” he says again, but when Arthur finally lets himself out he sinks back into his pillow and closes his eyes, unable to suppress the enormous smile trying to stretch past his cheeks.


End file.
